Lian/Roch (Bayou Heat) (4 page)

She wanted to laugh at his absurd story.

To assure him that he was out of his mind and that he needed to return to his home. Without her.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Quite simply because she believed him.

Not only because of the sincerity in his voice, but because she’d always possessed the ability to sense when someone was telling her the truth.

She wasn’t a lie detector. Her gift wasn’t that precise. It was more an overall ‘feeling’ of honesty.

At last she gave a slow shake of her head and studied him with a growing sense of horror.

“You have a goddess locked in a shed in the Wildlands?” she breathed.

Lian turned to pace the worn floorboards, his movements possessing a fluid grace that no human male could match.

“Basically.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist. “And you want me to translate a scroll in the hopes that it will reveal how to kill her?”

He turned, his face hard with determination. “Or return her to her prison. If she awakens and escapes she’ll eventually discover a way to destroy us.” He held her gaze, as if daring her to deny the truth of his words. “It’s that simple.”

She chewed the inside of her lip. She believed him. She didn’t want to, but she did.

“You’ll have to bring the scrolls to me,” she at last conceded, holding up her hand as his lips parted in protest. “There are ways to ensure they’re transported without harm and I’ll need my research books to help with the translation.”

“No.”

Her brows snapped together. Annoying, arrogant…ass.

“You claim to need my help, then you go out of your way to be difficult,” she protested. “It isn’t logical.”

He moved back to stand directly in front of her, his potent male musk making it difficult to think about anything but ripping off his clothes and exploring every inch of his hard, bronzed body.

“We can’t allow the scrolls to leave the Wildlands when we’re surrounded by enemies,” he informed her.

She clenched her teeth.

Concentrate, Sage
, she silently chided her embarrassing thoughts. The man was here to stop a potential genocide.

Now wasn’t the time to be distracted by her suddenly overactive libido.

“What enemies?”

Fury flared through the whiskey-gold eyes. “The disciples of Shakpi have gone into retreat, but they continue to watch from the shadows for the chance to strike.” He glanced toward the French doors, almost as if expecting to discover one of the disciples standing in the overgrown bushes. “If they learn that there was a scroll that could destroy their goddess they would stop at nothing to get their hands on it.” His gaze snapped back to her, his expression bleak. “Including killing you.”

Her heart squeezed in fear. Oh…lord. She spent her life trying to avoid attracting attention. The last thing she wanted was to piss off a bunch of homicidal fanatics.

“I can give you the name of another translator,” she said, inching toward the open door leading to the hallway.

If she was lucky, she could make a dash for her upstairs bedroom where there was a nice, sturdy lock on the door.

His eyes narrowed. “Are they as good as you?”

She shrugged, taking another step toward the door. “I know several who are very competent.”

His lips twisted as he deliberately stepped into her path, his arms folded over his chest.

Busted.

“Who is the best?” he prodded.

She heaved a resigned sigh. “I…I can’t come.”

“Why not?” He reached to cup her cheek in his palm as she tried to turn her face from his unwavering scrutiny. “Dr. Parker?”

She forced herself to pull away, latching onto the first excuse that came to mind.

“I should think it was obvious,” she said. “I am a genius, after all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m smart enough not to take off with a stranger who broke into my home and claims he needs me to help kill a goddess.”

“Good point.” The cat lurked in his eyes…lethal, prepared to pounce. “Now tell me the real reason.”

“I did.” Her mouth was dry. Not from fear. No. This was pure, unadulterated excitement. “I think you should go.”

He reached to trail his fingers down her throat, hooking one finger into the neckline of her sweatshirt to pull her toward his hard body.

“You know I’m not leaving without you.”

“Lian, don’t.”

He ignored her breathless protest, his gaze lowering to the full curve of her lips.

“Tell me, sweetheart. Why do you use these books to hide from the world?”

Trapped beneath the ruthless golden gaze, she found it impossible to lie.

“I’m different.”

“Because you’re smart?”

“That, and I…” She faltered. She didn’t talk about her strange abilities. Not even with her mother, who’d always suspected her daughter wasn’t normal. “I see things other people don’t.”

Most people would have laughed.

Or immediately assume she was a lunatic.

Lian didn’t even flinch.

“What do you see?” He asked. “Images? People? His free hand reached to lazily play with the end of her ponytail. “Pink elephants?”

She glared at him. “It’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry.” He went motionless, belatedly seeming to sense she was more than a little sensitive when it came to her ‘gift.’ “Please tell me,” he urged in a soft voice.

A part of her wanted to walk away. This man already disturbed her on a level she didn’t entirely understand. Did she really want to make herself more vulnerable by revealing her deepest secrets?

But another part sensed that this stranger was one of the few in the entire world who could understand.

“When I truly looked at you I could see your cat. Not with my eyes, but…” She gave a shake of her head. “It’s hard to explain.”

His fingers cupped her chin, his attention focused on her with an unnerving intensity.

“What else?”

She blinked. His interest wasn’t just a polite pretense. Or a fascination with the local weirdo.

It was a genuine, intense desire to know.

God. Could he actually reveal what was wrong with her?

“There are some people who have outlines of shapes that dance around them,” she said, unable to actually describe the peculiar forms that she could see.

Some were so vague they were nothing more than wisps of white. Others were solid human outlines that were filled with vibrant colors. Yellow, scarlet, plum and a dozen other hues. Each color seemed to represent a characteristic of the form. Loyalty, honor, courage, anger, lust…

She wrinkled her nose. “I assume they’re ghosts.”

“Not ghosts,” he corrected, his voice…reverent. “Ancestors.”

Her heart gave a leap of hope. Yes. Ancestors who stood as protectors for their family.

That seemed right.

“How do you know?”

He gripped her hands, his eyes blazing with the force of his cat.

“Come with me, Dr. Parker,” he commanded. “I have the answers you’ve been searching for.”

* * *

The mansion in the Garden District of New Orleans was set behind high hedges and surrounded by a well-manicured lawn. The white two-story home was framed by a large pool on one side and a sunken rose garden on the other.

At the back was a large grotto that was surrounded by several marble statues that were rumored to have been stolen from Versailles.

The ten million dollar estate had once belonged to a prominent Louisiana family who were now buried beneath the recently remodeled garage.

Stepping onto the balcony that ran the full length of the second floor, Stanton Locke leaned against the ornate wrought iron balustrade and pressed his cellphone to his ear.

A tall man with dark hair he kept pulled into a short tail at his nape, he had a lean, dignified face, blue eyes and a slender form that was currently attired in a Armani suit.

The sort of man who looked as if he should be living in a posh mansion.

Few people would recognize him as the brutally poor orphan who’d grown up in the East End of London.

Stanton, however, never forgot his cruel beginning. Or who had snatched him from the inevitable life of drugs and early death that had been his certain destiny.

“You managed to locate him?” He spoke into the phone, his British accent honed until it sounded as if he’d attended a posh boarding school.

“Yes,” Hank answered him, his voice rough. Unlike Stanton, the local thug had no desire to try and better himself. Which was fine. There was always a need for expendable soldiers. “But it doesn’t make any sense,” Hank added.

“Explain.”

“The house he’s visiting belongs to some hermit researcher.”

“Researcher of what?”

“Languages.”

Stanton tapped an impatient finger on the railing, his mind racing.

Could this be the opportunity he’d been waiting for?

It was risky.

“A human?” he demanded.

“Yep.”

“Intriguing.” He paused, weighing the danger of tipping his hand against the knowledge they were running out of time. “We need that Pantera,” he abruptly announced.

He heard his soldier suck in a shocked breath. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Stanton understood the man’s reaction. Trying to capture a Pantera, even when they were away from their homeland, was like trying to trap a wild animal.

Thankfully they’d stumbled across the information that malachite could weaken the beast inside them, making it possible to bind them in the heavy-duty chains that Stanton had personally designed.

It wasn’t always successful, as they’d discovered on more than one painful occasion.

But it was all they had.

For now.

“Ah, Hank, I did question whether you were suitable to take on a position of authority and clearly my fears were well-founded,” he drawled.

Despite his lack of intelligence, Hank did possess a finely honed instinct for self-preservation.

“No…” he rasped, his fear throbbing in his voice. “I mean, of course I’ll get him.”

“Good.” Stanton smiled, his gaze sliding toward the tree-lined street just visible over the high hedge. “You know what happens to people who disappoint me.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll contact you as soon as I have him.”

“You do that.”

Stanton returned the cellphone to his pocket, lingering on the balcony to enjoy the morning sunlight. The autumn air was crisp, but still warm enough to encourage him to delay his return to the house.

It was the unmistakable ping of his computer that at last forced him to turn and enter the long, ivory and gold room he’d chosen as his office.

The lofted ceiling with gilt cornices matched perfectly with the Louis XIV furniture and Persian carpets, creating a Versailles vibe. The ornate elegance might offend some men, but Stanton had spent his early days dreaming of the day he would be surrounded by luxury.

This suited him just fine.

Crossing to the cherrywood desk, Stanton settled himself in his chair before he touched the button on his computer to connect with the caller.

“Yes, master?”

The screen flickered, but it remained too dark to reveal more than a vague outline.

“Have you managed to retrieve my prize?” a dark voice demanded.

Stanton felt a chill inch down his spine. He’d only seen his master in the flesh on one memorable occasion. He still had nightmares.

But the man had turned Stanton’s life from one of grim survival to endless possibility.

For that he was willing to give him unwavering, unconditional loyalty.

“We are still searching,” he was forced to admit.

The man made a sound of annoyance. “My patience grows thin.”

“I understand,” Stanton soothed. “I have several warriors poised to infiltrate the Wildlands, but the Pantera remain on heightened alert.” He resisted the urge to clench his hands in frustration. Emotions were the enemy. Success came from a clear head and a precisely formulated plan. And if events outside his control interfered in his scheme, then it was his duty to find a way to use that interference to his advantage. That was how he’d earned his current position on top of the Organization. And how he intended to stay there. “It is impossible to enter their territory unnoticed.”

There was a husky rattle as the Master struggled to breathe. “What we need is a distraction.”

“My thoughts precisely,” Stanton promptly agreed. “I hope I might have one.”

“The sooner the better, Stanton.” The warning was unmistakable. “For all our sakes.”

Chapter 4

Sage felt hope spike at Lian’s soft promise to reveal the truth of her strange powers, only to be swiftly replaced by a wary disbelief.

“How could you know what’s wrong with me?” she demanded, pulling her fingers out of his hands.

He scowled, but he allowed her to step away. “To start with, there’s nothing wrong with you,” he growled.

“I’m not normal.”

“Thank god,” he assured her. “Normal is boring. You’re blessed.”

Blessed? She shuddered when she remembered the neighborhood children who ran away when she started to talk to the misty figures that no one else could see. Or worse, when she had a vision of a disaster before it happened.